


The One Thing

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Banter, Bottom John, Bottom Molly Hooper, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Female Ejaculation, G-spot orgasms, How is muthaluvvin G-Spot Orgasm not a tag already?, Kissing, Multi, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Sherlock, i guess?, serial penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 18:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Elite restaurant manager Molly Hooper finds herself in a messy but delightful three-way relationship with chef/owner Sherlock Holmes and pastry chef John Watson. After a long night on their feet, the three spend some time on their backs, bellies, and knees.PWP, restaurant AU.





	The One Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to tumblristas for prompts--I wasn't able to get them all in, but that gives me reason to write these three again in future!
> 
> This threesome first got it on in a previous story, "Just Got Lucky."

Molly fought an urge to truly snoop through Sherlock’s wardrobe and bureau, though she was perhaps overly choosy about which of his things would be comfortable for her to slip into. His neatly folded, equidistantly hung, and precisely arranged clothing was a non-surprise given his fastidious habits in general and his vanity in specific. Over the course of the nearly three months since a pointed three-way flirtation between her, Sherlock, and John at her birthday ’do had propelled them into a three-way shag on top of her lacy duvet, Molly became increasingly at home in both Sherlock’s and John’s flats. But she had never been alone in either until Sherlock pressed two keys connected by a tangled knot of twisted wire into her palm and assured her he and John would follow, once they’d finished putting the restaurant to bed for the night.

Naturally Molly had not reached her elite position managing a Michelin-starred restaurant by indulging in messy and reckless dalliances with co-workers or bosses. She’d worked toward a single goal since she got her first job bussing tables using ID that inflated her age to a legal-hire level. Wherever she saw an opportunity to move upward, she reached for it: cocktail service in a cigar bar owned by a restaurant group that dominated fine dining in London’s outer suburbs; waiting tables at brunches and weddings catered by a staid but prestigious _grand dame_ of London’s dining scene; headwaiter at an edgy, everything-served-with-foam molecular gastronomy place that opened in a flash but fizzled within a year. Molly saw the end approaching and jumped ship to become assistant manager at the first of several restaurants helmed by a celebrity chef with real talent to back up his notoriety; it was there she met sous chef Sherlock Holmes, who ran service on the traditionally slow nights, created dishes good enough to be served as specials and eventually to be written into the menu. When he at last announced he’d investors interested in backing his own spot, Molly’s appreciation of Sherlock’s talent was affirmed, and when he finally quit with the celebrity’s blessings, Molly all but told him she would run front-of-house at his new restaurant, Rag and Bone. Sherlock, no fool, put up little resistance, and Molly gave notice she’d be moving on.

Eleven months after Rag and Bone opened came a Michelin star; seven months after that, pastry chef John Watson; and now, just shy of two years after she’d achieved her life’s ambition, Molly was draping her silk cocktail dress on an antique straight-backed chair in the bedroom of one of the two men she was regularly shagging, and of whom she had become quite fond. As she slipped a shapeless, formerly-black t-shirt over her head, there came the squeak and thud of the heavy front door, and she exited Sherlock’s bedroom (nothing shocking, even in the drawer where he kept his neatly tri-folded socks, but she’d have another more thorough look in future) in time to meet John, sliding his old messenger bag off his shoulder and firing up a grin both friendly and lascivious.

“Well, hello, pretty bird,” John greeted her, and Molly felt a familiar below-the-surface tingle and flush at the endearment. Stepping out of untied trainers he left near the base of the hall tree, he added, “Sherlock’s a few minutes behind me. I’m going to shower in the meantime.”

Molly flicked her chin in a quick nod. “Well planned. Beer?” She opened the fridge and ducked down to look deeply into it, gratified to hear John suck his breath as Sherlock’s t-shirt rode up her bottom just a bit.

“Thanks. I like the t-shirt as well as the dress from earlier but I admit I’d hoped for the shoes to stay on.”

Molly cracked the tops off two bottles and passed one to John. Though the red-soled, black satin and silver leather sandals were some of her own favourites, Molly was never sorry to step out of them at the end of a night on her feet in the dining room.

“_You_ wear stilettos through an entire dinner service, then tell me whether you want to go on wearing them on your own time,” she challenged, smiling.

John considered. “Interesting point. Maybe I can massage your feet for you, in that case.”

“Promises, promises. Go shower, dirty boy,” she scolded, and retreated to the lounge with her beer. She sipped rather than gulped, to avoid belching, and slumped low in the leather chair she knew Sherlock favoured, leaned her head on her folded arm and let her eyes close. She was still hours from sleep—like most in their industry, she was a night owl—but shutting her eyes helped her begin to slough off her wired-up work energy. With each exhalation she visualised melting muscles. The more relaxed she became, the less her thoughts were of table-turning and keeping the bussers moving and generating the right blend of graciousness and flirtation to please the A-list pop star and his five far less interesting dinner companions.

“Sleeping?” She enjoyed John’s voice. Sherlock’s voice was always slick-velvet, overt sex—and he knew it, and abused it—but John’s voice late at night took on a sleepy, thick quality that put her at ease.

“No, just letting go of work.”

“Excellent.”

John had a towel around his waist, and he lifted his bag onto the kitchen table, rummaging inside until he pulled out a small leather shave kit. Molly watched him through lowered lids. Both of their phones went; hers was tucked in her purse, but John lifted his off the table. He let out a whuff of breath that sounded like pleasant surprise.

“Sherlock?” Molly asked, though she knew the answer.

“Quote, I can’t wait to get into you both. Unquote.”

“Presumptuous,” Molly joked mildly.

“I’d say maybe ambitious, as well. Same text to both phones, I assume.”

Molly crossed the room and liberated her mobile, woke it and checked her texts.

“Same,” she affirmed. “Here,” she prompted, and took a place close to John’s side. He slid an arm around her back and rested a firm hand on her hip, pulling her nearer. Molly held up her mobile and dipped her face to John’s neck, brushing her lips to suck softly, kissing a slow upward trail. John’s hand steadied hers, tilting the phone just so, and he snapped a photo they quickly sent back to Sherlock. “What’s keeping him?” Molly asked, as she and John found a familiar embrace, and she scattered bushing kisses over his jaw and cheeks.

“Making the orders up for tomorrow so he can sleep in a bit.”

“Ah,” Molly affirmed. “_We_ can.”

“That’s exactly right.” John’s hands caressed her backside, under Sherlock’s misshapen t-shirt and over her lacy pants. She leaned back just enough that he caught the meaning, and he gave a solid squeeze. Molly licked his lower lip.

“But he’s on his way?”

“God, I hope so.”

Molly hummed agreement, and they carried on kissing, slipping caresses over the lengths of arms and the curves of shoulders, and John’s knuckles brushed Molly’s nipples beneath Sherlock’s t-shirt. She took his hand, dirty-giggling, and pulled him toward the bedroom.

Minutes later, t-shirt up and over, towel unwound and tossed, and she helped him with the hook of her bra hidden behind a silk bow between her breasts. John’s quiet gasp was gratifying, and Molly held his neck and the back of his head while he nuzzled, licked, sucked. Her nipples tightened beneath his tongue; she felt the flutter of his lips there as a thrumming shock between her legs. She stroked the back of his calf with the arch of her foot.

It had taken them surprisingly little time and shockingly little discussion to each discover what the others liked—though they still discovered more all the time—and so had become comfortable and confident with each other. Molly cradled John’s chin and jaw, drawing him up to her face; they smiled into their kisses, until John’s fingers against Molly’s inner thigh telegraphed his desire and they kissed deeper, greedier, and she hummed encouragement as he kissed a downward trail across the skin of her neck, breasts, beside her navel. Tilted her hip to scrape a lightly sucking kiss against her backside. John nestled belly-down between her splayed legs and licked his lips, licked her thigh. Dug the tip of his nose into the crease of her hip. Molly’s fingers slipped against her already slick pussy-lips as she maneuvered the lacy panties out of his way, and John growled, so she lingered in the motion, parting herself with one pink-polished fingertip. Tickling her clit.

“Pretty,” he breathed, and his fingers crowded hers away, stroking inside, gently opening her folds. He blew softly against her and she sucked in her breath, shuddered a shiver. She tugged the panties harder against her hip, lifted one knee to invite him. John’s tongue slid slow, maddening strokes between her lips, teasing around but not touching her clit, not right away. He caught one lip between his own and suckled, stroked up from her entrance with two firm sweet fingers. Molly felt herself flowing in response. At last he settled, shoulder against her thigh, and began to lick her clit, tongue-tip, flat tongue, his breath, the edges of his teeth, all of it again in a different pattern, at a new tempo, and Molly pushed fingers through his hair, and there was a soft, automatic roll in her hips, cuing him to what would best please her.

John lapped and caressed and tickled, now and then gently sucked, found the perfect rhythm and the ideal shape to trace, and Molly had so lost herself to it that the arrival of Sherlock on the bed beside her—close but not touching, his head propped up in his hand, his elbow making the pillow dip and her face roll toward him—came not entirely as a shock, but more like a sudden flash of memory. The creak of the giveaway stair, his shadow leaning in the bedroom door, the shower running, all things she had noticed but immediately let go of. Sherlock brushed the tip of one slender finger across the arch of her breast, spiraled to her nipple—feather light—and John’s tongue ringed her clit in exquisite heat, his fingers inside her now inviting her to come hither, and she moaned deep, rocked against him probably too hard, but he hummed enthusiasm, and when Molly came she let out a sharp cry. It was deep and hot and shocking in its suddenness. Helpless to it, she laughed, then yelped, held the back of his head and circled her hips hard against his lips and tongue. She moaned until it subsided into sighs.

“Fantastic,” Sherlock rumbled, and Molly softened as John drew away, dropping kisses on her thighs and hip. She licked her dry lips and Sherlock kissed her, then John, then the two of them kissed each other, and Sherlock slipped fingers into her pussy and began to stroke her. “So wet,” he murmured, and John kissed her neck. Molly could smell herself, and them, sharp desire and deep. Shadowy. Smouldering. Her legs began to tremble as Sherlock’s fingers slid easily over her slick clit.

“_So_ wet,” John agreed, sounding pleased. “Soaked my hand.” A low growl as he kissed up her throat. Her men had only recently caught on to the hyperfluid flow of her G-spot orgasms, and had got no argument from Molly against their mutual fascination—and mild competition—with making her gush. “He’s going to make you come,” John muttered beside her ear.

“Yeh,” Molly gasped, well past coherent speech, eyes shut, floating in bliss. Her men at each side of her, stiff pricks brushing her skin, open mouths against her shoulder, throat, temple, fingers. Sherlock kissed her deeply, Molly’s breath coming in hot gusts so that she had to break away, jutting her hips up and up and up against his two swirling fingertips.

The second peak of her orgasm was higher and sharper than the first, and she cried out. Two breathless, rumbling voices encouraged and praised her, but the physical sensation was quickly overmuch; she shoved at Sherlock’s wrist and his fingers slipped away, then down, to slide inside.

Molly’s eyes opened in delighted shock. “Oh,” she protested, then, “No.” But it broke apart: nuh—_ah!_—oh.

“Please let me,” Sherlock murmured. John had moved away, probably going for condoms and slick, and Molly felt her muscles melting, all the heat of her blood rushing to a single, shattering point as Sherlock’s fingers pressed and scraped over that spot inside her that sank her helpless into utter, rampant pleasure, and the sounds from her own throat were unfamiliar in her ears—low—unguarded--shameless. Sherlock rested the heel of his hand on her low belly, counter-pressure that sent hot shocks through her torso and limbs and made her quick-swallow high-pitched, gulping breaths. Molly shook all over, pressed one quivering hand over her thudding heart. Her orgasm was a radiant, throbbing wave, molten-hot and liquid-thick through every muscle and nerve.

“Oh fuck _yes_,” Sherlock groaned heavily and loud, sounding awed. John hummed somewhere in the middle-distance.

Molly reached out a hand, weak and pleasure-drunk. “John,” she whispered through a dry throat. “Hold me.” He moved close, kissed the corner her mouth, then sucked her lip between his own. He did as she wished, wrapping arms around her back and holding her close, his knees settling at her sides. Molly found Sherlock’s forearm and grasped at him with scrabbling fingers. “Sherlock, fuck me. Fuck me. I want you inside me,” she babbled, and John held her, kissed her, and with minimal rearrangement of their bodies Sherlock began thrusting into her, John hovering above, the welcome weight of his chest on hers. With her eyes shut, Molly sank into sensation, a beautiful confusion of sturdy male bodies, growling moans, more points of contact than were ever possible with a single partner.

Sherlock shoved hard inside her and held himself there, suddenly still, and Molly whimpered distress at the break in rhythm. Sherlock looked pleased as he leaned over John’s shoulder and Molly strained upward to meet his kiss, ran a hand up the back of his arm, up his neck, into his hair. She fell away gasping, her men kissed each other, and she whined, and Sherlock resumed fucking her, slow out and quick in, teasing, and she wriggled in frustration so that John released her from his embrace, lifted himself so she could move. Molly’s hips rolled and jutted, and Sherlock gave her—harder—faster—more of what she wanted, steadying himself with his hands on John’s back.

Minutes reeled by in a syrupy rush. Sherlock and John became urgent, holding hard and persuading with grasping hands and gasping pleas. They resettled themselves: John flat on his back, Sherlock inside him, Molly cradling John’s head and dropping kisses on his face. Sherlock’s huge hands kneaded and stroked her backside, held her hips to pull her against him, fucking them both; the air rang with rapid-fire smacking sounds—the new arrangement a harsh thrill that made all three of them curse and cry out. Molly steadied herself with one hand on John’s shoulder, reached between their bodies to cradle his cock, slipping it between her palm and her oozy pussy-lips, rocking a hot slide against him that wouldn’t make her come again, but which made John growl, so she curled her fingers tighter and let Sherlock’s thrusting carry them along.

Sherlock quivered behind her, and cursed low and loud—fuck, fuck!, _fuck!_—firmly holding her bottom against his hips as he came, and John wrapped his hand around hers so together they pulled forth his orgasm, John following Sherlock so closely it was as if his spunk was spurting from Sherlock’s cock, another delicious tangle of misperception as arousing as it was impossible.

They fell into a heaving tangle, hands caressing each other, exchanging breathless kisses, smiling and softly laughing in the afterglow, until they broke apart to do what was necessary, regrouping once more to recline three-in-the-bed against the propped up pillows, Molly in the middle, blankets pulled up to their waists.

“I’d say I should go home to my cat,” Molly said lazily, stretching with an arched back that presented her breasts in a way Sherlock could not ignore, and he dipped down to kiss one, even catching her nipple between his lips. Molly giggled and collapsed away from him, but pulled his head down onto her breast, began a mellow stroking of her fingers through his hair. “But I don’t think I could leave this bed if I wanted to. I’m ruined.”

John lay beside her on his back, one hand on his middle and the other feathering across Molly’s thigh beneath the bedcovers. “Stay, then,” he said, “and I’ll make us all breakfast in the morning.”

“It’s all right with you, Sherlock?” she asked. They’d stayed the night together before—never at John’s; his bed was small—but it was still not yet anyone’s habit to ever assume a welcome.

Sherlock responded with a sleepy noise, half-purr, half-grumble, that told Molly he was disinclined to let her out from under his heavy head. She found a particular curl at the back of his neck and slid her fingertip through it like putting on a ring.

John turned onto his side and the weight of his arm lay across her middle as he stroked Sherlock’s arm. John’s chin rested lightly against her shoulder. Far too soon to have fallen in love (not to mention she was knee-deep in the messiest possible version of a messy relationship with coworkers), Molly nevertheless knew she adored them. Sleeping between them was sweet and sure, and she closed her eyes with a smile on her face, Sherlock and John whispering an argument about who should get up to turn out the light.

“Rag and Bone, this is Molly Hooper speaking, what can I do for you?”

The dining room was bustling, not yet half-five and already packed to the rafters, even on a weeknight. Molly covered her ear to hear better. As the caller unfurled the request, Molly turned sharply on her pencil-point heels and strode across the dining room and through the kitchen door, where she snapped her fingers to get Sherlock’s attention. John noticed but Sherlock did not—or refused to—and after a moment Molly said into the phone, “Currently we’re booking five months out, even for early and late seating, but I’m sure I can make arrangements. May I put you on hold? Thank you.” She made double-sure she—and more importantly, Sherlock—would not be overheard by the posh-accented woman on the phone.

“No.”

“Sherlock.”

“Whatever it is, we can’t accommodate it. No.”

“_Sherlock_.”

He busied himself examining plates coming across the pass, wrapped a towel around one finger to brush off an errant leaf of thyme from one edge.

“No birthday or anniversary. Not Patrick Stewart, nor his husband Ian MacKellan. Not even my mother. _No_.”

“The Henry Mountbatten-Windsors would like to reserve the chef’s table in the kitchen.”

Sherlock paused, then stood stiffly upright. At his pastry table, John suddenly stopped hand-whisking cream and his eyes went wide.

“We don’t do that here,” Sherlock said at last.

Molly’s lips tightened and she gave him a pointed stare. He shook his head.

Molly tapped the phone’s screen. “The chef is happy to welcome the party. Six, you said? How is Saturday next, half-eight?”

She hadn’t gotten where she was by substituting the judgment of temperamental chefs for her own. Other managers would ring off a call from a duchess’s social secretary and immediately dial several tabloid gossip columnists, but Molly knew the smarter course was to pamper the guests and carefully keep the whole event out of the press. Grateful VIPs would tell others in their rarified air, hopefully about the excellent meal, but certainly about the discretion of the management. Molly could rely on waves of this new pool lapping at their toes for months to come.

Sherlock’s expression was a rather attractive blend of fury and grudging admiration.

Molly caught John’s twinkling eye, then tilted a grin at Sherlock.

“Don’t pout,” she soothed. “We’ll make it work.”


End file.
